


Tangled

by sphinx01



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, Light Bondage, Other, Plug and Play, Romance, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphinx01/pseuds/sphinx01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Could it be that, as the Morphobots had snatched him away from his friends, had tied him up, held him down and shamelessly molested him, that they had been trying to <em>communicate</em>?"</p><p>Set after the G1 episode 'Quest for Survival', with slight liberties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Capture

**Author's Note:**

> There is no justification for this story, except for the fact that I very much wanted to write it. It was originally meant to be a oneshot, but started to grow legs like a centipede, so I decided to split it into several chapters. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks go to my fellow author iratepirate for beta reading!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Transformers, and I do not make any money with this.

** Tangled **

**Part 1: Capture**

They needed more energy.

Barely a quarter of this planet’s solar cycle had passed since they had devoured that swarm of robotic insects attacking them, and already they could feel their reserves beginning to dwindle again. Something had been wrong with those creatures; something that left their energy strangely weak and thin, without substance, almost like a poor copy of the real thing. And of the few scraps they were able to harvest, most had already been burned up again in their struggle to keep those annoying robots at bay.

If they didn’t find another source of sustenance, and soon, they wouldn’t make it much longer.

The robots - they had energy. And plenty, too, judging by how freely they spent it. They’d been trying to herd them together and out of their secluded valley for quite some time now, coming up with the most amusing ideas, and didn’t appear the least bit exhausted.

If only they could get their tentacles on some of those resources... But they had no means of communicating with these mechs, and given the way they’d been acting towards them so far, chances that they might willingly support them could be safely assessed as remote.

Which basically left them with only one option.

Most of the robots could be ruled out from the start; they were too large, too sturdy or too heavily-armored. But among them were two that differed from this design. Their build types were a bit lighter, a touch sleeker; made for speed and stealth rather than pure physical strength, it seemed.

Yes, they would do. The little yellow one would be perfect, since he was the smaller of the pair, but he was standing too far away.

The black and white one it was, then.

A soft, involuntary whine escaped them when a dull ache began to suffuse their tentacles, reminding them quite sharply that they were running out of time.

If this was to happen, it had to happen now.

xxx

Something cool and sleek wound itself around Jazz’ ankle joint.

With everything that was going on around him, he barely registered the touch at first, just shied away from it on coded instinct. His attention shifted only when, contrary to what his sensors expected, the unbidden entanglement stayed firmly in place. If anything, it became even tighter.

Perplexed, Jazz threw a quick glance at his feet - and in the astrosecond it took him to do so, another tentacle shot out of the surging mass of plants before him, catching hold of his outstretched arm and wrist.

“Woah!” Hydraulics clenched and unclenched in rapid succession as he strove to pull himself free, but the effort proved just as fruitless as the first time. Pit, those Morphobots were clingy, weren't they?

True to his Special Ops training, Jazz switched to Plan B. “Hey, guys, can someone lend me a ha-”

Both tendrils tightened around his limbs, and next thing he knew he was jerked forward so hard his equilibrium sensors could no longer compensate. He hit the ground hard, grunting in pain at the impact. For a brief moment, his visor actually fritzed out, leaving him with only white-grey static for input.

“Jazz!”

His vision cleared just in time for him to see Prowl flinging himself down next to him, grabbing his shoulder struts and hauling him away from his attackers with surprising ease. Both tentacles loosened at the sudden motion, and Jazz kicked his legs to dislodge the first one from his foot while the dark hands of Hound pried the second one away from his arm. The tracker grinned at him.

“Why, Jazz,” he teased. “Didn’t know you were into the old bondage game...”

Jazz brushed the last filaments off his limbs and retaliated with a playful bump of his energy field against Hound’s. “Judging by your own standards, huh?”

Taking the hand Prowl offered him, he scrambled to his feet and ran a quick self-diagnostic scan. His photon rifle was lying several steps away, he noticed; the force of the impact must have jolted it out of his grip.

“Are you functional?” Prowl inquired.

Apart from some scratched paint and a slightly increased spark pulse rate, the data on Jazz’ HUD indicated nothing out of the ordinary. He grinned at his comrades.

“Just fine. Ego’s a bit dented, that’s all.”

The words had barely left his vocalizer when all of a sudden all hell broke loose.

Several dozen tentacles lashed out at once, filling the air like shrapnel after a violent explosion. The clawed ends collided heavily with Prowl’s and Hound’s chest plates, knocking them both clean off their feet so fast they didn’t even have time to cry out. The unpleasant, grinding sound of sand on metal filled Jazz’ audio receptors as his friends skidded several meters across the ground.

Strangely enough, he himself was not attacked.

At least not in the same way.

Instead of being flung through the air like a human rag doll, he was wrapped into a thick blanket of metallic tendrils from neck to hip, including his arms which were thus firmly captured at his sides. The Morphobots gave a collective hiss that sounded almost triumphant before their tentacles flexed and began to pull their captive towards them.

A flicker of fear pulsed through Jazz’ spark then; real fear, not the pleasant jitters that tended to precede a new mission. Upon his arrival in the valley, Blaster had briefed him on what the Morphobots had done to the Insecticon clone army, and as much as he appreciated being rid of the bugs, he wasn’t exactly keen on sharing their fate.

Planting his feet firmly against the ground, he leaned back as far as possible and poured all the strength he could muster into fighting the tendrils’ insistent pull. Some stupid Insecticons might be one thing, but those crazy greens wouldn’t get _him_ for a snack!

The alien plants hissed again, this time clearly in anger as Jazz actually managed to stop the forward movement. Had his arms been free, escaping would have been a piece of cake now, but they weren’t, and the Morphobots quickly figured out the source of the problem.

Another tentacle took a well-aimed swipe at Jazz’ legs, sending him to the ground again before the rest resumed dragging him forward, only at a much quicker pace this time.

Oh _scrap_.

Jazz struggled and squirmed as much as he could, the beginnings of genuine panic lending his efforts a fierceness he normally reserved for Decepticons, but to no avail. At his rear, he could hear his comrades shouting at the Morphobots and at each other, Prowl's half frustrated, half frightened cries of "Grab him!" and "Stop them!" sounding the loudest.

Poor Prowler, he thought fleetingly, and for no apparent reason. His friend would surely take this unhappy turn of events to spark...

The last thing he saw before a wall of silver tendrils closed over his head were the terrified faceplates of his fellow Autobots.

xxx

Despite all the shared elation they felt at their successful hunt, they could no longer deny that they had underestimated the physical strength of their prey. They might have managed to separate him from his comrades, but the black and white mech was kicking, bucking and thrashing with all the considerable power his sleek frame held, occasionally even snapping his dentae at some vinelets that came too close to his faceplates.

That wouldn't do, of course.

They tightened their embrace as much as was possible without denting his armor, slinging several more tentacles around his legs to keep him from thrusting his feet into their bodies. Other tendrils pinned the captive down to restrain his movements, and a smaller one twisted around his neck cables to keep his head in place. They preferred biting to being bitten, thank you very much.

The robot’s struggles ceased immediately. He sagged into the tangle of their tendrils, his cooling fans cycling rapidly, but apart from the occasional shudder that passed through his frame, he lay utterly still.

Although this was exactly what they had been aiming for, the abruptness it happened with caught them off guard. In the heat of the moment, they hadn’t even paused to consider how things were to proceed should the hunt be fortunate. So here they were, with this juicy bite right before their maws and utterly irresolute about what to do next.

Devouring a cybernetic organism as big and complex as this robot was out of the question. That method worked fine with insects and anything else of about that size, but they were simply not designed for a meal of such proportions. Besides, the fact that they were predators by nature didn’t mean they took pleasure in inflicting pain on another creature just because they could. They hadn’t hurt the other robots either - dented them a bit, perhaps, but nothing severe, mainly because none of the attacks these mechs had launched at them so far had posed a real threat. While certainly a major nuisance, they were all in all not an opponent to be reckoned with.

Their attention was drawn back to the delicious flow of electric energy pulsing beneath their captive’s armor plating.

There had to be a way to enjoy this treat without having to crack the shell open.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Understanding

**Tangled**

**Part 2: Understanding**

Jazz abandoned all resistance the moment one of those tentacles wrapped around his neck cables. As a Special Ops mech, he'd been trained to stay calm and focused in situations where other bots would long since have lost it, and that training was so deeply ingrained into his source code that it easily managed to override the first ticks of panic once it kicked in.

Fighting wouldn't get him anywhere, that much was obvious. At best, he would end up hurting himself. In the worst case, it would provoke the Morphobots into hurting him, and he had absolutely no desire to find out what _that_ would be like.

Instead, he pulled a deep draught of air into his vents and willed his strained hydraulics to depressurize. The action caused him to sink even deeper into the tangled mass of tendrils and maws beneath him, but he registered no immediate response from his captors. Good. Some precious astroseconds more for him to find a way out of this literal tight spot.

He opened a comm. link on a general frequency, but quickly gave up any attempt to get through to his comrades. There was a strange interference in the line, probably caused by the Morphobots' bioelectrical field.

Well, never mind. The others would not be kicking their heels out there. All he had to do was to buy them as much time as possib-

A small vinelet curled around one of his sensor horns. He twitched at the unexpected touch, only slightly so, but the Morphobots clearly took notice and answered with a soft, rustling sound. The tentacles' tight embrace loosened to some extent; not enough for him to take advantage of, but it loosened nonetheless.

And then one tendril slipped in between the others and started to feel its way over Jazz' armor plating.

Jazz muted his vocalizer, dampened his pain receptors and braced himself for what he knew was coming. Primus, just let him hold out long enough...

To his immense surprise, the expected agony never came. Neither was his plating cracked open, nor were sensitive internal components ripped out and shredded to shards between alien jaws. The silvery appendage simply proceeded to glide over his frame, slow and almost gentle, touching each tiny spot on its way with meticulous care as if searching for something. Others had begun to join it; all across his body, Jazz' sensors reported to his CPU the soft tickling sensation of thin vinelets slithering over his armor.

He shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation and instinctively tried to shy away from the touches, confused and revolted, and yet at the same time increasingly curious. What on Earth and Cybertron did that pushy plant life have in mind? It did not seem their intention to harm him; they could long since have done so if they'd wanted. And Pit, they were coming across real sensitive places in their weird inspection, like the underside of his bumper, for example...

A crackle in his comm. system jerked his attention away from the Morphobots.

_'...-azz, d-... -ead? Jazz... -ear me?'_

He hastily tuned in on the frequency, trying to grab hold of the faint transmission. _'Prowl?'_

There was an unpleasant, high-pitched whistle in the line, but then Prowl's voice suddenly sounded much clearer.

_'Jazz, thank Primus! Are you fully operational?'_

Jazz glanced down at the tendrils that kept exploring his chassis. One of them was just ghosting over his right headlight, and his intakes hitched slightly at the soft tingle this caused.

' _Jazz? Were you damaged?'_

_'No, no,'_ he said quickly. _'Prowl, listen: Try not to torque them off, okay? I don't know what's going on here, but they haven't hurt me yet, and I'd rather it stay that way, y' know.'_

There was a moment of silence as Prowl presumably fed this new information to his tactical subroutines.

_'Alright,'_   he said. _'We're working on a strategy. Blaster is on his way here, but Jazz - I'm not taking any risks, do you hear me?'_

Jazz did his best to ignore the tentacle around his sensor horn which had started to gently tug at the sensitive appendage as if to see what might happen. _'Gotcha,'_   he said.

Another moment of quiet ensued, then Prowl spoke again, very softly this time. _'Just hang on, Jazz. We're not leaving you. Prowl out.'_

He cut the transmission without waiting for an answer, but Jazz felt a tiny smile pull at his lips. He knew their SIC would now be pouring all his computing performance into setting up a preferably non-violent plan for his rescue.

In the meantime, however, he had his own problems to deal with.

Some of those cheeky tentacles had detected one of the larger transformation seams in his side, right were his hip joined his abdominal plating. He tensed at the contact, but that was pretty much everything the Morphobots gave him time for.

A strange sound, almost a purr, emitted from deep within the plants, drowning out Jazz' shocked gasp as the first of the silvery appendages slipped under his armor plates.

xxx

Ah, this was it.

A small gap where two parts of the bicolored armor plating met, just wide enough for one of their stronger vinelets to fit through. The energy flow was potent here, hot and pulsating and so deliciously close. Their soon-to-be donor had tensed again, a shudder running through his frame, but their grip still prevented him from struggling. All they had to do was latch on to the wires inside and soak up as much of the precious electricity as possible...

A stroke of lightning crashed into their systems, a stream of liquid fire so intense it _hurt_. An agonized scream was torn from their maws as the pain rushed through their shared bodies and mind, leaving every muscle raw and twitching. They jerked away from the source of the discomfort, and only dimly registered their captive spasming beneath them, giving an equally pained cry as their claws wrenched away from his wires.

They sagged, shaking themselves in an attempt to get rid of the uncomfortable tremors that only served to increase the ache of the energy depletion. The black and white mech was pulling deep draughts of air into his ventilation system, his blue optic band glowing brightly.

Hot, frantic anger surged up inside them, fueled by pain and frustration. How dare that piece of scrap metal resist them, completely and utterly at their mercy as he was? They could grind him to dust if they wanted to!

Their tentacles twitched in the overwhelming desire to simply cut loose, to just tear that little hellion limb from limb...

And yet, a small part of them was still hesitating. Among all the raging emotions, there was a tiny little voice whispering to them that this short circuit had most likely not been a defensive reaction from their prey. It had hurt him, too, judging by his response, and a closer look at the small amount of energy they had been able to harvest quickly made it clear what had happened.

The respective patterns of their energy frequencies were not incompatible, but obviously dissimilar to a degree that had to make a direct transmission complicated - and, apparently, painful. Since they both stemmed from totally different worlds, that shouldn't be a great surprise, but in their haste to get what they wanted, they had clearly failed to make allowances for this issue.

They calculated quickly. Their energy levels were getting dangerously low, and their captive's comrades were undoubtedly bound to try a rescue maneuver sooner or later. What they needed to do, and fast, was to bring both their frequencies into enough of a harmony to enable a sufficient transfer.

Slipping their tendrils back inside, they took hold of the wires again and started to transmit a series of slow, low-current energy pulses, basic enough for pretty much every electronic system to tune in to and synchronize with. They'd used this technique before for various purposes, and it normally worked out pretty well.

What they hadn't reckoned with was that their stock-still prey would suddenly burst into motion.

Too late did they realize that, in their shock and pain, they had inadvertently loosened their grip on him. It was only ever so slightly, but he was taking advantage of it in every way he could. He bucked so hard he almost ripped a couple of tentacles out of their joints, tried to kick at them with both feet, tried to roll onto his front and very nearly succeeded in burying his dentae in a bundle of delicate vinelets.

"Get _outta_ there, you sick fraggers!" he hissed.

Even if they didn't understand the words, the message was more than clear, and a cold, numbing fear began to take hold of them. No, no, this couldn't be happening... they had neither the time nor the energy left for another hunt; if he managed to escape now, that would be their death warrant...

They threw themselves onto their captive with a strength born of desperation, clamping down on him with everything they had while their claws locked on to his wires in a vague hope that their refusal to let go might make him rethink his intentions.

' _No... please... not fight... energy... need... last chance... please...'_

Snippets of thoughts and emotions tumbled through their shared mind, a frenzied stream pouring into the synchronizing frequency they were still transmitting. If only they could explain, could make him understand...

This fight had to end, and soon. If not...

They clung just a little bit tighter.

xxx

Jazz was beginning to tire.

Fighting the Morphobots was like trying to catch smoke in one's bare hand: For every tentacle he managed to escape, three others would appear and take the first one's place. And to make things worse, those obnoxious vines were still stubbornly trying to invade his personal energy network, a connection much too intimate to be tolerated. Connecting yourself to some external hardware to download data was one thing; that was perfectly okay and generally accepted. But to grant another sentient being access to your inner circuitry was a completely different matter, something usually reserved for either medical emergencies or as a way to share pleasure with a lover.

Jazz was pretty sure that none of those scenarios applied to his current situation.

In lack of a better defense, he diverted as much power as possible to his anti-virus programs, bolstering any suitable firewall to block the strange frequencies his attackers kept feeding him.

And promptly, as if the Morphobots had read his processor, the transmission pulses became notably stronger, their intervals shorter.

He shuddered at the sensation, but to his own dismay not completely in revulsion. Those frequencies, alien as they were, were also simple enough for his own to adjust to them without much effort, and that in turn rendered the sensation surprisingly pleasant, almost like a caress...

What the Pit was taking Prowl so long?

He was about to try and open the comm. link again when he suddenly noticed the change.

Not only had the pulses become more intense, but there was also a strange kind of urgency in them now. The Morphobots closed in on him, tightening their hold, but Jazz quickly became aware of the small, erratic jerks that traveled up and down their tendrils. The alien plants gave a low, keening sound, and another wave of their foreign energy crashed against his firewalls, fierce and almost desperate this time.

And with that last surge came a totally novel set of information, a sort of data that had not been there before and that bore a disturbing resemblance to _emotions_. Was that... fear Jazz was sensing in the transmission? Pain? A raw and frantic need for something he couldn't define?

For a moment he lay utterly still, dumbfounded. Could it be that, as the Morphobots had snatched him away from his friends, had tied him up, held him down and shamelessly molested him, that they had been trying to _communicate_?

It was an unwritten Autobot law that, if an enemy wished to negotiate, they should be listened to, regardless of faction or species. It was also an unwritten Autobot law that an SOS was to be answered, if possible.

Consequently, if this weird alien plant life wanted to talk, Jazz was bound by duty and by his honor as an Autobot officer to at least try to get into contact with them.

Not to mention that he was Pit-spawned curious by now.

It was one of Prowl's favorite sayings that when Primus had granted adventurousness to his creations, Jazz had probably been the first to step forward. So, living up to his reputation, Jazz decided to hazard a little experiment.

He cycled his vents slowly, and then cautiously lowered the first layer of his firewalls.

The Morphobots' reaction was clearly one of surprise. The energy transmission faltered, and a soft, rustling sound came from amidst the tangled vines. Some tendrils straightened and bent their claws as if to look down at him, but made no move to attack. They appeared wary, Jazz thought, but not aggressive.

He ventured a tiny smile.

"Hey there, gang," he whispered gently. "Designation's Jazz. Anything I can be of help with?" He wasn't sure if the Morphobots were capable of common Cybertronian, or of any language for that matter, but he figured that if he was going to have a chat with some alien plants, he might as well do it properly.

A tense moment of silence followed. The tendrils swayed gently from side to side, and Jazz had he distinct impression that they were debating among themselves what to make of this sudden turn of events. Granted, his behavior towards them so far did not exactly speak in his favor.

It stood to reason, he concluded, that if he wanted to succeed with this strategy, he would have to prove his good will.

Ignoring the heavy pulsing of his spark, he dialed down his defense system and then deactivated the remaining firewalls. About a handful was kept in place to protect his core programming and most private memory files, but the better part of his energy network was now effectively laid bare for the invaders to play havoc with it if they so chose.

The Morphobots chirred softly. Jazz pulled a deep draught of air into his vents and readied himself for the swift and relentless intrusion he was undoubtedly in for.

What he received instead was a single, firm frequency pulse, so different from what he'd expected that it took him completely by surprise. He pushed back out of pure reflex, sending a small amount of energy through his wires.

The Morphobots practically pounced on the tiny pulse, soaking it up with the voracious hunger of parched earth drinking the long-awaited rain. Jazz stared in fascination as the reason for his capture began to slowly dawn on his CPU.

"Is _that_ what you need? Energy?"

The silvery vines gently tugged at the wires they were still holding on to, and when he didn't react immediately, they started to transmit their foreign frequencies again, in deep, heavy pulses this time, all the while emitting a rich, purring sound as if to encourage him to repeat the action.

A flush of heat suffused Jazz' circuitry, leaving his intakes hitching and his limbs trembling in its wake. With his firewalls gone, the transmission streamed into his systems with contented ease, and his own frequencies adjusted in a matter of astroseconds. He let it happen, marveling at how natural it felt once he stopped fighting it. The Morphobots chirred again in obvious delight, and when they started to hungrily absorb the electric current from his lines, the loop between their individual systems was finally closed.

The carefully balanced energy flow sent a pleasurable tingle through Jazz' whole frame and had his cooling fans kick in with a soft snick, slowly at first but quickly picking up pace. A soft, involuntary moan escaped his vocalizer.

A small part of him was still horrified, still trying to figure out what was happening to him and if all this was even real or just some kind of weird processor glitch. The greater part, though, the one that was firmly connected to his Spec Ops programs, had already adapted to the situation and was now offering the most efficient course of action: The Morphobots did not mean to assault him in any way; he even doubted that they were aware of the effects their feeding had on him. All they'd been seeking was a source of nourishment, and Jazz certainly didn't mind sharing some energy as long as the process did not entail any immediate danger.

And if there was a bit of pleasure to be gained from the procedure, then why not welcome it? It had been a while since he'd last enjoyed an intimate connection, and the close contact to another system, even one so alien, felt very nice...

He cringed when his comm. system suddenly jumped to life again.

_'Jazz, this is Prowl. Do you read?'_

He actually fumbled for the line briefly before he managed to tune in to it. _'Roger, Prowl.'_

_'I have Blaster here with me now, Jazz. You still alright?'_

Some of the connected tendrils were resting on his abdominal plating so that Jazz could feel the gentle vibrations of their purring travel through his chassis. _'Yeah, yeah,'_   he replied quickly. _'I'm good.'_

_'We have locked on to your position,'_   Prowl informed him. _'I want you to keep this channel clear and remain calm until we've got you secured. We're going in now.'_

_'No!'_

Strange. The glyph seemed to have taken a shortcut, firmly turning its back on his higher CPU functions. A puzzled silence filled the comm. line.

_'What do you mean: No?'_   Prowl asked eventually, his tone somewhere between impatience and confusion.

Jazz cursed his hyperactive vocalizer as much as possible in view of the steadily building charge in his systems. _'There's... there's no need, Prowler, I've got things covered here. Think I've established some kind of... connection.'_   Oh, the irony...

_'What in Primus' name are you talking about?'_

The tendrils shifted slightly, moving wires and cables aside to make room for the slim, young vine that slipped in between them, probing deeper for more sensitive spots. Jazz fought to stifle a groan when his core temperature spiked in response, and briefly wondered if Prowl could hear the whirring of his cooling fans over the comm. link.

_'Please, Prowler, I can handle this. Just need a bit more time.'_

Oh yes, yes, just a little more, wouldn't take long...

_'Jazz,'_   Prowl said, his voice strained as he clearly spoke against his better judgment, _'you know I hold your proficiencies in the highest esteem, but if I get only the slightest impression that your safety might be compromised -'_

The Morphobots chose that moment to transmit a particularly heavy pulse, and Jazz gave up any pretense of speaking or even thinking coherently. He barely managed to fling a quick _'Thanks, Prowl; Jazz out'_   into the line before the connection crackled and died as the charge in him surged, turning all his hydraulics into water. He sank back into the plants' tangled embrace with a groan, trembling and carrying the vague hope that Prowl would find nothing wrong with his safety.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	3. Unison

** Tangled **

**Part 3: Unison**

Pure, untainted bliss coursed through their systems.

They had no idea what exactly had happened, but it seemed that somehow they had made their intentions clear to their captive: The robot had stopped struggling, had dropped his defenses and opened his circuits to them, and suddenly all that wonderful, warm, rich energy was pouring into them like a stream of fiery light.

Oh, they had almost forgotten what that felt like.

The first few pulses, smooth as they were, nearly choked them in their intensity, but they stubbornly held fast, and before long they managed to settle into a contented rhythm. The world began to fade as they filled themselves with that perfect, delicious richness, dissolving into a sweet oblivion where nothing existed but relief and joy and gratitude and nourishing warmth.

It took a while for the new sounds to finally penetrate that cozy haze.

The first one was familiar; the robot’s cooling fans had switched on again and gave off a soft, whirring noise. The second, novel one came from his engine, they realized, which had started to emit short, gentle revs with each frequency pulse they sent him. It felt nice, actually, as the reverberations traveled up their tentacles and created a pleasant tingle throughout their bodies. Out of a simple reflex, they put a bit more force into their next pulse, seeking to intensify the sensation.

A full-body shiver accompanied the gasping moan that escaped the mech’s vocalizer. His plating, already pleasantly warm, grew a touch hotter, and his fans began to cycle a bit faster.

Their energy reserves were nowhere near their optimum yet, but the worst hunger was assuaged enough for this new development to pique their interest. They were admittedly not very good at reading the emotional expressions of other life forms, but this one definitely did not give the impression of being in pain or frightened any longer. Though still wrapped tightly in their tentacles, he had even started to move slightly, a gentle, rocking motion concurrent with their energy pulses, and through their connection, they picked up the echo of a sensation that, though unknown to them, felt emphatically good...

Could it be that he was gaining _pleasure_ from their contact, just as they were gaining energy?

The thought was intriguing, to say the least. None of their prey had ever reacted to them like that - though granted, to get eaten alive probably wasn’t a very enjoyable feeling. But this... what a wonderful new thing to explore and play with! Better still, it might even put them in a position to give something back to their donor in exchange for his service. Let nobody say that they didn’t know how to clear their debts!

During their earlier inspection, they had already made out the occasional sensitive spot on that bicolored chassis, they recalled. Perhaps he would like to be touched in those places again?

Without stopping their feeding, they reached up with two strong vinelets to caress the black, horn-like appendages on the mech’s head.

A heavy shudder passed through their captive’s frame. He gave a deep, rumbling groan, and his backstruts formed a sensuous arc as he clearly tried to get closer to the touch, not away from it. The slow swipe of a tentacle across a white thigh was equally well received, eliciting a delicious shiver and a soft whine, while gentle flicks against his headlights resulted in a series of odd little pants.

A fierce sense of pride seized them out of nowhere as they watched, mesmerized, while their bicolored prey squirmed in obvious delight. It felt _good_ , they decided, to know that _they_ were the source of so much pleasure.

A new movement caught their attention then. The mech had started to murmur softly; quiet, exotic sounds they still couldn’t understand, but his voice was much kinder now, almost encouraging as he gently tried to maneuver his trapped arms out of their entwinement.

They hesitated. Could they afford the risk? But their hold on the rest of him remained firm; it should pose no trouble to restrain him again if necessary, especially now that they weren’t so completely starved anymore.

Innate curiosity got the better of them. Their tendrils loosened, just enough for the robot to pull his right arm free.

His reaction, though immediate, was delightfully non-violent. The black hand began to leisurely trail upwards, pausing briefly at the juncture between hip and thigh, but soon moved further up to caress his abdominal plating. Which meant that it inevitably, but to their greatest surprise without hesitation, also stroked the thick bundle of tentacles they had slung around his midsection.

Oh... what a wonderful sensation, the touch of warm, living metal so much like their own... If all the robots could be persuaded to be so accommodating, they were not leaving this place anytime soon, and no mistake about it. And those nimble fingers didn’t stop there, they continued to slide further up, teasing hairline seams in the smooth metal, and eventually slipped under the protrusion of his chest armor to gently rub and fondle its underside.

It seemed that the cabling down there was particularly receptive to touch, since the constant rumble of the mech's engine instantly crescendoed to a point where it nearly drowned out the soft moans and mewling sounds that spilled from his vocalizer. The charge in his electrical systems, only so mild at first, had increased considerably, teetering on the brink of something they couldn't name, but which they intuitively felt was big and good and very much _wanted_. His body had tensed in their embrace, his fluent, undulating movements turned into jerky twitches as he gasped and arched against them. Oh, he was gorgeous... never before had they seen, or heard, or felt something so beautiful.

Another slow frequency pulse, and he practically sobbed in what sounded like near-desperation. The noise stirred something deep inside them, and in a sudden, strange desire to help they extended several slim vines and let them slip into the smaller gaps between his armor plates, caressing the delicate wiring they found there.

A lightning storm of energy exploded across their connected systems, so powerful and unexpected it threatened to knock them unconscious. They reared up with an involuntary cry, tentacles twitching and jerking helplessly as the incredible energy surge jumped from body to body, hot and tingling and pleasant in a way that _hurt_. The black and white robot beneath them trembled and moaned, but they barely took notice of him anymore. Too intense was the jumble of sensations that overwhelmed all their senses, swept them away like an irresistible flood and left nothing but heat and pleasure in its wake.

As ecstatic as the feeling was, though, it did not last very long. Which was probably a good thing, because otherwise, they might simply have dropped dead from the raw force of the experience. Still, as the sensation started to fade away, it was kind enough to leave behind a gentle, throbbing warmth, a heavy yet pleasurable weariness that spread through their bodies into the very tips of  their tendrils, and they gave in to the temptation without a second thought, sinking down to rest on their captive’s warm armor plates.

The tension had left his frame, they noticed. Only quiet little shudders traveled through the black and white metal while his cooling fans slowly cycled down. His optic band was offline, but when they nestled some vines up against him, seeking more contact, his free hand came up and started to lovingly pet and stroke as much of the metallic appendages as it was able to reach.

Never, never in their existence had they been touched with so much affection. They pressed into the caress, purring and chirring in utter contentment almost louder than the robot's engine had been - until a realization hit them like a douse of cold water, unpleasant and disturbing. 

They had achieved their goal of restoring their energy reserves. Now it was time to make good use of that energy. They needed to leave this valley, to find better shelter and, most importantly, a reliable source of nourishment. They’d need both if they meant to survive on this alien planet. Not to mention that it was high time, too. It came close to a miracle that the robot’s companions hadn't yet tried to reclaim their friend. The quicker they set him free and retreated, the better.

Except that - they didn’t want to.

The mech looked utterly delicious as he lay sprawled in their tangled vines, engine humming and limbs twitching slightly from what seemed to be little aftershocks traveling through his wires. The connection was still active, and they could have sworn that they sensed something akin to amused contentment echoing across the link.

They wanted more of him. More of that invigorating energy, more of those sweet moans and gasps, more of those loving caresses.

A quick glance across the valley told them that, surprisingly, the remainder of the robots had not moved. They stood in a clustered group, watching them tensely and, from time to time, conversing quietly among themselves, but their weapons were lowered, and they made no move to attack.

Perhaps... perhaps it would be safe to keep their price, just for a little while.

xxx

The Morphobots had not let go of him.

That was the first thought that tiptoed into Jazz’ CPU as he gradually came down from the height of his overload. Strange... he’d been sure that he would be dropped and abandoned the moment the alien plants got what they wanted, but no. Their grip on his chassis remained firm, though not brutal anymore, and the energy connection had not been broken. They were also producing that sonorous, purring sound again that brought an involuntary smile to his faceplates. Strange, yes - but not unwelcome.

There was some light movement, and then several of the closer tentacles came sinking down to rest on his chest plates, like an exhausted lover might do. The action triggered a reflexive response in Jazz; his free hand rose and trailed gentle, invisible patterns over the warm metal. The tendrils instantly shifted closer, and he felt his spark glow with sudden emotion at this unexpected display of trust. How cute was that - they wanted to cuddle...

For a while they lay in content, almost companionable silence, and eventually, Jazz couldn't help but to inwardly laugh at himself. This was for sure the weirdest predicament he'd ever found himself in, and Primus below, but he was thoroughly enjoying himself. It might be attributable to the post-climactic bliss suffusing his processor, but while his fingers kept stroking and the Morphobots kept purring, the gentle glimmer of fondness in his spark had time to grow into a full-fledged burn of affection for these unusual suitors. How, pray tell, had he ever been afraid of those cuddly little guys? The thought seemed ridiculous.

The Morphobots began to stir, and he onlined his visor right when the tentacles began to withdraw, one by one, until only a couple remained wrapped around his thighs and upper arms, firm yet flexible. Three thick stalks held him tight around the middle, and a bundle of vines positioned itself conveniently underneath his head, almost like a pillow. The purpose of these actions became clear to Jazz when he felt their connection coming to life again with a small yet determined energy pulse. He laughed softly.

“What? Not sated yet?” he teased, and the rustling noise the metallic tendrils made in response sounded just like a chuckle.

Jazz knew from experience that he was perfectly capable of multiple overloads, provided that his partner was willing to give him appropriate stimulation. _These_ partners were definitely more than willing, if the gentle rhythm the energy pulses were once again falling into was anything to go by. He vented slowly, checking his HUD. Most of the warning messages had extinguished now, and his energy levels were at 91 percent; he had plenty more to share before he’d even begin to feel the effect. Also, it seemed that Prowl had seen fit to provide him with the time he’d requested, judging by how docile the Morphobots had been behaving this past breem.

The thought provoked a strange, uneasy sensation, a feeling of being _trapped_ , torn between his sense of duty and the responsibility for his fellow soldiers on the one hand and the growing fondness for those alien creatures on the other. Shouldn’t he at least apprisehis friend of what was going on, even at the risk of being reproached with fraternization (and Prowler probably blowing a fuse or two)?

Right at that instant, a delicate little vinelet brushed fleetingly against his faceplates. A random gesture, no doubt, but it made Jazz’ spark swell in a way that, though intensely sensual, had nothing to do with physical lust.

With a groan, he reached into the silvery mass of tendrils, making good use of the relative freedom of his hands by randomly grabbing hold of the nearest vines, pulling them down and hugging them close. They came willingly, rubbing smoothly against his chest plates as he re-opened his electrical systems and sent an encouraging energy pulse through his wires. It was gladly taken, and they both uttered their own quiet sound of pleasure when the connection flared to life once more. Their systems synched again, a warm, contented buzz between them, and Jazz delighted in the pure ease of it. He nuzzled his face into the closest vines, breathing a gentle kiss onto the metal surface before he indulged in one of his favorite interfacing activities by giving it a short, playful lick.

The Morphobots cheeped in surprise, but they did not attempt to shy away from the touch. Jazz grinned to himself before he repeated the caress, enjoying the warm, metallic taste in his mouth. The tendrils in his grasp shivered deliciously when his glossa settled into a languid, easy rhythm, and for a while he lost himself in the deep intimacy of the act - until his botanical lovers decided to return the favor.

Dozens and dozens of gentle touches assaulted his sensor net in more different ways than he cared to distinguish. Some of the slimmer, more flexible vines slipped into his transformation seams, catapulting his core temperature into the red once more as they teased the delicate parts in there. Others had begun to systematically revisit the various hotspots on his chassis, stroking his sensor horns, circling his headlights and feeling over his bumper, his hip plates, the sensitive insides of his thighs. His engine revved hard of its own volition, but he did no longer care about any form of control. It felt too wonderful; all those soft, tentatively exploring touches mapping out his body as if to memorize it...

Jazz suddenly felt reminded of some of the younger lovers he’d had, those who had granted him the honor of being the first to share their berths. The Morphobots had much in common with them, he pondered: willing, yet shy, anxious, but still curious, still eager to please, discovering each new action and reaction with endearingly innocent wonder.

Again his spark surged with this odd combination of affection and protectiveness he couldn’t explain. Lying with those young bots, it had always been his defined goal to make his partners feel cherished and cared for, to create a memory worth treasuring. Doing the same for the Morphobots didn’t even require a conscious decision, though he wasn’t too far gone yet to not be aware of his train of thoughts. There was simply no doubt, not for a moment, that this was what he wanted and needed to do.

With a hint of amusement, he realized that his hand was trembling slightly when he raised and offered it to his multi-armed partners. A young, tender vinelet curled around his fingers like a tiny Earth snake, showing no hesitation at all, and Jazz carefully stroked one finger along its slender length before he guided it down to his side and used his free hand to fold back the cover panel of one of his access ports.

“Here,” he murmured, and a hint of static clouded his vocalizer. “Wanna try this?”

It was completely, totally and utterly crazy, and he could off the cuff name a dozen people who would probably have his head for taking such foolish risks. He had no fail-safes here; anything could happen, from a simple short-circuit to a system-wide stasis lock. But the vinelet was curiously prodding and examining the port now, and all Jazz could do was to smile down at the charming sight, his intakes hitching a bit at the teasing touches.

“C’mon,” he encouraged. “Trust me; you’ll like it.”

And perhaps the Morphobots _did_ understand him, for the tiny claws pressed into the port with utmost caution, and then connected to the circuitry within with a soft click and a warm surge of electrical energy.

In an instant, any doubts Jazz might have had about the synchrony of their systems vanished. This kind of connection did not only transmit energy, but also allowed the participants to share all kinds of data. There was no conscious interaction yet, but he clearly sensed the presence of another mind skirting the edges of his processor, not teasing, just hovering expectantly. It took him a moment to get acquainted with the sensation of a consciousness that was so many, and yet one, so primeval, and still so much like his own. A message popped up on his HUD, informing him of an ‘Unknown external hardware found’. He brushed it aside without a second thought, sending the command to accept the link.

‘Unidentified type of connection. Transmission may contain malevolent software. Do you want to proceed?’

Jazz gave an agonized groan. Yes, dammit!

And finally that stubborn CPU of his complied, the program executing with a smoothness that belied all warnings. Their thoughts began to bleed into one another, a sensation so intimate it made both of them whimper. Jazz took the first step and carefully pushed a simple string of code into the newly established link, conveying his fondness, his care, and just how much he _wanted_ this.

The answer was a deep, consenting hum from among the plants, and then Jazz’ mind and spark were swept away by a joyous tide of emotional input, tumbling in rapid succession through a spectrum of happiness, pleasure, gratitude, affection, trust, hope...

He trembled helplessly under the onslaught, barely aware of the moans and gasps spilling from his vocalizer. The Morphobots echoed him with soft, high-pitched chirrs, and Jazz’ energy field flared and extended on coded instinct, wrapping them both in a cozy embrace as he strove to repay his partners with every last scrap of code he had to offer. Oh, Primus, he wouldn’t last long; this was too good, too perfect, was ecstasy at its most beautiful.

_Yes, baby, yes... keep it coming... feels so good..._

His core temperature spiked, straining his cooling systems to maximum capacity, but there was no way he could care about that now. Renewed charge was crawling languidly over recently depolarized sensor nodes, drawing up to the inevitable peak far quicker than the Morphobots could absorb the energy. But this time he was able to relax and to let things happen, to experience the mounting pleasure in its entirety instead of with his overheating circuits only. The Morphobots were quickly getting the hang of things, their collective mind gliding around and against his with the same ease and confidence their tentacles were caressing his trembling frame with. One vinelet grazed his lips, and Jazz happily complied with the unspoken request, using his glossa to gently guide it into his mouth before starting to suck away with gleeful abandon, pressing impossibly closer into the delicious embrace.

_Yes... yes... please..._

His second overload was neither as strong nor as piercing as the first one had been, but that was fine, really, for the pleasure was deeper this time, sweeter and more satisfying. Lazy surges of charge washed through his lines, and the return of the Unmaker himself could not have stopped the joyous cry that broke loose from Jazz' vocalizer. His lovers purred in counterpoint to his revving engine, lustful contentment being the dominant sensation to fill the link as they lapped up the sparking electricity in a rhythm and at a pace which could only be called voluptuous. The gentle drain was a constant, tingling pull in Jazz’ systems that seemed to physically draw him closer to his partners in a desperate attempt to merge their frames in the same way their minds had already joined. A multitude of tentacles closed in to again wrap him into a tight cocoon, and they clung to each other as they rode the subsiding waves of bliss into a warm, peaceful afterglow.

xxx

They floated in each other’s satiation, all sweet and golden and happy and blissfully tired. Somewhere far in the back of his processor, Jazz registered the faint smell of ozone and hot metal and the soft ticking of his cooling frame teasing his sensors while gentle zaps of excess energy sent shivers all over his body. Recharge was quickly becoming an appealing option; to just sink into warm darkness filled with the Morphobots’ happiness, rest for a while, and then to reboot slowly to be greeted by more gentle pleasure and the touch of an affectionate mind...

But no... no, no, he couldn’t. His friends were still out there, waiting for him and probably worried sick by now.

A stab of contrition jolted him back to full awareness, immediately followed by a flash of anger at himself. With their connection still in place, his thoughts had filtered through the link unhindered, and now the Morphobots were stirring in obvious distress, voicing a soft, unhappy coo. Jazz cursed himself for his carelessness as he quickly sent a combination of soothing algorithms over the link, but there was no sense in pretending, and he knew it.

“’M sorry, sweetsparks,” he murmured, caressing the vinelet that was still resting in his port. “I can’t stay with you, I need to go.”

The answer was an immediate tightening of tentacles, and then a rush of stubbornness and negation so intense it made Jazz reel. Primus, the force... In most cases, not even a hardline connection like this one gave you unrestricted access to your partner’s processor. There was always the occasional firewall, anti-spyware program or coded file indicating data which the mech or femme in question wished to retain for themselves. Here, however, he perceived nothing of the kind; if the Morphobots possessed anything akin to a data filter, they made no move to engage it. The transmission rate was one-to-one, so to speak.

And still, despite the harsh reaction, something about those alien creatures simply left Jazz unable to feel anxious or annoyed at them. He turned his head, nuzzling his faceplates against the closest tentacle. “I know, sweeties. I like you, too, very much. But my friends will be worried about me, you see? I can’t just leave them; we’re a team, a family. You understand that?”

A wild flurry of emotions streamed into his CPU at that, together with something new he couldn’t quite grasp, something that resembled _memories_. There was a fleeting impression of a once thriving and now dying world, of a home and companions left behind, of cold space and fear of an uncertain future, all emphasized by a deep, profound longing.

Something exploded in Jazz’ spark in that moment. It writhed and scathed, burning a fiery path through every line of programming right down into his most basic source codes, screaming at him to _protect/comfort/hold tight_. He gasped in shock, but before he could do anything, the Morphobots’ fierce denial dissolved into a kind of sad resignation that seemed to say: Yes. We understand.

He should have been pleased with this development, Jazz knew, but the feeling eluded him. The fingers of his one hand, he realized, had stopped stroking and instead closed tightly around the connected tendril, while the others had intertwined with the nearest bundle of vinelets, unwilling to let go.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. Primus, what a clichéd thing to say, but for the love of him, he couldn’t think of anything else. “I’ll take care of you. Me and my friends, we’ll think of something to help you, I promise. All will be well, you’ll see.” He pushed a carefully-wrapped data package into the link to help convey the meaning of his words, hoping so much that the little guys would understand...

The next moment, he was lifted clean off his bed of alien plants with what seemed to be not the slightest effort at all. He couldn't hold in a soft “Whoa!” of surprise, marveling at the sheer strength of those tentacles. Holy Pit, they could snuff him with nothing more than a casual squeeze if they had a mind... But the tendrils held him safely while the plants beneath him moved aside, and then he was gently lowered onto the sandy ground and released. The claws still holding the wires in his hip joint let go, and one by one the single stalks loosened and withdrew until the only one remaining was the vinelet in his access port.

A last, strange impression washed through the link, a confusing mix of uncertainty and trust, and it pained Jazz that this should be the last thing he felt from his lovers. But the tiny claws had already disengaged and the connection broke, leaving nothing but a brief burst of static in his HUD. The click of the cover panel closing over the port sounded much too loud in the ensuing silence.

Jazz drew a deep, slow draught of air into his systems. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it, but his spark ached.

The Morphobots chittered softly and offered a steadying tentacle when he scrambled to his feet and wobbled slightly as his equilibrium sensors protested the sudden shift of position. The last tendrils lifted like a silvery curtain before his visor and provided him with a good view of both the valley and of his fellow Autobots.

They had formed a combat line, weapons leveled and ready to jump into action. Positioned squarely in the middle was Prowl, his back straight and door wings held high. Nobody moved as a couple of tense astroseconds ticked by.

Finally, not taking his optics off of the Morphobots, Prowl made a brief gesture towards both ends of the formation. Jazz sensed the buzz of comm. messages being passed, but didn’t bother tuning in to the frequency. He could imagine what kind of orders their SIC was giving.

As expected, two of the ‘Bots, Hound and Blaster, abandoned their positions in the line and began to approach from either side, guns charged and firmly trained on the alien plants at Jazz’ back.

Not wanting to provoke any rash actions, Jazz held himself as still as possible, but he did raise both hands slowly, palms outward, to show that he was not bound or restrained in any way. “’S fine, guys,” he called. “I’m alright.”

Both mechs stopped in their tracks, exchanging a quick glance. “Man, you okay?” Blaster inquired. “We heard ya scream.”

For the time being, Jazz decided to not react to that last comment. “Splendid,” he said. “All’s cool, mechs, they’re friends. No need for violence.” He didn’t expect them to just drop their guns and jump into his arms, but it still seemed to him that they both unwound a little bit. Hound even gave him a small smile.

“Okay,” he said. “So, let’s get you outta here, alright?” He took a cautious half-step forward.

A soft rustling became audible as the Morpobots stirred slightly. Glancing over his shoulder strut, Jazz couldn’t make out much more than a gently swaying, silvery mass, but the sensation of warm metal sliding against his plating didn’t really surprise him. A medium-sized tentacle had crept forward silently and wrapped itself around his lower arm, not squeezing, just holding gently, while the clawed tip came to rest softly against his palm.

Hound’s barely lowered weapon instantly jerked up again, closely followed by Blaster’s electro-scrambler as they both fell back into attack positions. The air was suddenly filled with the whining sounds of charging guns, and the Morphobots reacted immediately by rearing up their tentacles with an ugly screech, dozens of maws swinging open to bare sharp, metallic teeth in a gesture of clear threat.

Two quick steps, guided by well-proven battle protocols, and Jazz had positioned himself firmly in front of Hound’s gun muzzle, creating a physical barrier between the two adversaries. Arms spread, he leaned back against the wall of tentacles to enable as much body contact as possible while half-turning his faceplates into the tangled bulk.

“Hey, hey,” he crooned, extending his field to encompass the closest tendrils while he simultaneously held Hound’s wide-opticed gaze. “Don’t take on so, all’s well. They won’t hurt you, and you won’t hurt them, alright?”

Frankly, he didn’t know in that moment to which of them he was talking, exactly. Still, he decided to take the low purr he got from the Morphobots as a Yes, and even felt a bit proud when the little guys settled down again surprisingly quick. They didn’t let go of him, though, and he almost laughed when a second tendril snaked around his waist for what he could only guess was good measure.

A sputtering, indignant sound came out of Blaster’s vocalizer. The communications officer was gesturing helplessly to and fro between them, obviously lost for words, a remarkable occurrence that would have been hilarious if only the situation had been less grave.

“What the _frag_ , mech?!” he finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the Morphobots. His expression was stuck somewhere between anger and incredulity, and Jazz couldn’t really blame him.

“Put the guns down, mechs,” he said. “I can explain, but I need a bit of a more peaceful vibe here, you catch my drift?”

No such luck. Hound shook his head tersely. “Jazz, we have orders to -“

“Retrieve me. I get that. But the Jazz-man’s only available in a twin pack today, guys, so you...”

He wanted to say more, but a crackle in his comm. system forestalled him. The message came on a general frequency so that all three of them could hear when a familiar voice said: _‘Prowl to rescue team. Why is this taking so long?’_

_‘I’m sorry, sir,’_ Hound responded, his optics nervously darting back and forth between his companions. _‘There’s a kind of... situation here, sir.’_

_‘Is Jazz damaged?’_

_‘No, he’s not,’_ Jazz cut in, hot anger suddenly welling up inside him. Who did they think they were, talking about him as if he wasn’t there? _‘But he does have a Code White for you,_ sir _.’_

Silence. He met Hound’s and Blaster’s astonished gazes with a hard, unflinching glare.

_‘Request confirmation. I received ‘Code White’.’_

_‘Confirmed,’_ Jazz spat into the line. _‘Repeat: Code White confirmed.’_

Another silence followed, longer this time. Jazz felt a tension growing in his hydraulics that had not been there a klik ago. The Morphobots behind him chirped softly, and their embrace tightened a bit.

_‘Prowl to task force. We have a confirmed Code White. Repeat: Code White has been confirmed. All hands, stand down and await further orders.’_

One by one, the Autobots began to lower their weapons. Some clearly did so with more hesitancy than others, but none of them refused the order.

Jazz sank a bit deeper into his charges’ hold, making no effort to prevent the relief he felt from trickling into his field. He still wasn’t sure if the Morphobots were capable of reading field actions, but it felt natural to him to communicate that way, and he reckoned that there was no harm in trying.

His attention returned to Hound and Blaster, who had not subspaced their guns yet, but stood more or less at ease now and eyed him with undisguised curiosity. “Man, that true?” the communications officer asked, jerking his head at the Morphobots. “These things are _refugees_?”

The addressed chittered softly, and Jazz nodded, dragging his thumb over the claws in his palm. “Yeah. Bitlets need somewhere to stay, and I promised they could room with us ‘til we find them a place of their own.”

“So they have a language?” Hound edged another step closer, his faceplates now shining with that eager fascination he held for every living creature he encountered for the first time. “How do you talk to them?”

“An interesting question, indeed,” someone said.

Prowl approached them with slow, measured steps, his faceplates neutral and his field as stoically calm as ever. He carried no visible weapon, though Jazz knew better than to conclude that there was none. Both Hound’s and Blaster’s salutes were acknowledged with a perfunctory nod, then he turned and focused his attention on Jazz and his botanical charges, silent and waiting

A strange fit of rebelliousness seized Jazz out of nowhere, his jaws tightening subconsciously. Frag the formalities; if Prowl wanted to be a stuck-up slagger, bring it on!

But then he felt the movement of tiny claws in his hand, and the impulse faded as swiftly as it had come. His right arm still occupied, he had only his left hand for the salute, but it seemed to suffice. Prowl’s gaze became a tad softer.

“Is an explanation for your actions forthcoming?”

There was neither reproach nor anger in his voice, nor any other discernable emotion. But even as he spoke, Jazz sensed a light, electric tingle against his plating, indicator of the comprehensive system scan Prowl was directing at him.

He became suddenly, painfully aware that he would not be able to hide what had happened from his friend, and not because he had to hand in a mission report which Prowl as his superior officer would read. They weren’t lovers in the classical sense of the word, but over the millennia they had formed a close bond and had also shared a berth often enough for the tactician to identify the tell-tale signs of intimate contact. It had nothing to do with shame, either, for as far as Jazz was concerned, there was no shame in interfacing. But the thought of Prowl knowing about everything that had taken place between himself and the Morphobots made his spark hurt and felt wrong in a way he could neither explain nor understand.

He modulated his field frequency, gently yet decidedly blocking Prowl’s scanner beams.

“Yes,” he replied with as much composure as possible. “There is.”

* * *

_To be continued..._


	4. Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this story was a baby, I'd probably have needed a C-section to deliver it... Thank you so much to all my readers for your continued patience and interest! Enjoy the read!

**Tangled**

**Part 4: Farewell**

The rocket soared up into the evening sky, trailing an elegant line of white smoke. Next to it hovered a quickly shrinking, dark dot, Cosmos, who had agreed to accompany the Morphobots on their journey to the new home planet the Autobots had chosen for them.

Within a klik, the spacecraft vanished behind a bank of clouds, and the roar of its engines began to die away. Prowl cycled his vents in a long, slow intake of air.

Good riddance.

This last half lunar cycle had been irritatingly non-routine, what with them accommodating, negotiating with, and providing for an alien herbal life form that might at any moment just lash out and crush the nearest mech between its jaws. Not to mention the unplanned consumption of materials for the construction of a spacecraft, which had left their inventory lists shorter than he liked them.

It had been tolerable, of course. A major nuisance, but nothing an experienced officer couldn’t handle. The worries Prowl struggled with had a different reason, and that reason was currently standing just a few paces away, waving his goodbyes together with the rest of the crew.

During their sojourn on Earth, Jazz had taken upon himself the role of a spokesmech for the Morphobots. He not only explained to them the Autobots’ plan of finding them a suitable home; he also enforced proper refugee status for them and kept a watchful optic on the crew to act accordingly. And all the while the alien plants spared no effort to have Jazz close to them in some way, communicating in their strange, chirping sounds and, whenever possible, using their flexible tendrils to establish - and maintain - physical contact.

Now watching a fellow officer getting groped by a bunch of sentient plants was disturbing enough in and of itself. But what really put Prowl off was that Jazz not only allowed, but more often than not actively _encouraged_ that behavior.

A message alert appeared on his HUD as Cosmos reported in on a general frequency, announcing that the ship had successfully left Earth’s atmosphere. The assembled crew cheered and clapped, Wheeljack and Skyfire even giving each other a high five. Prowl’s gaze, though, remained focused on their Third-in-Command. Jazz had edged closer to Bumblebee, listening to something the spy was saying. He laughed and nodded, looking perfectly happy and at ease, but Prowl’s infra-red vision effortlessly picked up the slightly dulled color of his visor. It was barely there, but clearly noticeable if one knew what to look for.

He frowned deeply. Jazz had granted the alien plants access to his circuitry - a course of action Prowl was sure the saboteur had chosen solely to prevent the situation from getting out of hand. Tactical interfacing wasn’t that unusual in espionage and sabotage divisions. In fact, most Spec Ops agents received specific training to handle such occurrences, both mentally and physically.

But that did not explain Jazz’ obvious attachment to the creatures. Something had to have happened in that valley that the saboteur was keeping secret from them, and after two Earth weeks of running every scrap of information through his battle computer in a loop, Prowl was 96.88 percent sure that he knew what that something was. He was no specialist, but if one factored in the intimate knowledge of his friend’s character that Prowl possessed, the available facts allowed for only one conclusion.

_“And exactly what conclusion would that be?” Ratchet had asked, voice somewhat muffled by his position and the noise of various small objects tumbling over one another. Prowl hiked his door wings a little higher on his back in an instinctive display of authority._

_“Traumatic bonding,” he said._

_The noise stopped. Ratchet emerged from the storage cabinet and looked him straight in the optic for a long moment, a deep frown marring his faceplates. “Highly unlikely. Such a disorder takes cycles to develop, if at all. Plus we’re talking about a Spec Ops mech here. Those guys don’t have their processors triple-secured for nothing.”_

_“Yet all the signs are there,” Prowl said._

_“So you’re a psychologist now?” The medic huffed, but when Prowl didn’t budge, he closed the cabinet and sat down at his desk, impatiently gesturing to the SIC to do likewise. “Alright, what brought this on?”_

_Prowl obediently took a seat in the visitor’s chair across the medic. “I am aware that you conducted all the mandatory tests, and that the results were all negative. I wish to know what the error ratio is. How great is the chance that an affliction like traumatic bonding is not identified during those examinations?”_

_Ratchet snorted. “Nothing’s a hundred percent sure in psychology, Prowl. But I agree that this Morphobots thing is one of our stranger adventures, which is why I’ve done all my tests_ twice _. And I assure you that Jazz’ processor is in perfect working condition.”_

_Prowl took a moment to factor that information into his equations while the medic watched him impatiently. “You know, this little chat might go smoother if you tell me what the frag’s wrong in the first place,” he groused._

_The columns of figures on Prowl’s HUD relegated themselves to a secondary data stream as he turned his attention back to the conversation. “I am concerned about Jazz’... affection for the creatures,” he began carefully. “They abducted him, invaded his systems, plundered his resources. And yet he seeks physical contact with them, and their well-being seems to be his utmost priority. I want to be sure that we do not withhold medical care from one of our top officers just because we did not ask the right questions.”_

_That frown reappeared on Ratchet’s faceplates, but his field held more pensiveness than anger when he leaned forward in his chair, resting his folded hands on the desk. “We’ve both seen Jazz handle far worse predicaments, Prowl, and still come out of them unharmed. And you gotta admit, those critters_ are _quite sociable when they’re not trying to gnaw through someone’s chassis. I mean, have you seen Hound and Beachcomber swoon over them? And I swear on my skid plate I saw Optimus stop by yesterday just to wish them a good morning, for Primus’ sake!” He threw his hands up, exasperated._

 _There was no denying that he was right, in all respects. “This is different, Ratchet. I trust your medical judgment, and Jazz is a very open-sparked person, but he has never been so...” He desperately scrambled for an accurate definition, but all he got from his language files were question marks. “So_ intense _about it,” he finished lamely. “He hardly even spends time away from the creatures, except when duty requires it. That is not the Jazz I know.”_

_Ratchet sighed. “I get your point, Prowl, I do, but medically speaking, Jazz is a hundred percent healthy and functional. Mech’s got one of the brightest sparks I’ve ever known, though, and sometimes two people just... click, species be damned. Such things happen, y’know.”_

_Prowl remained silent, just looked at him, and Ratchet sighed again. “Look, if you really want to know what he sees in the creepers, here’s my professional advice: Don’t talk to me. Talk to him.”_

_A painful twinge grabbed at Prowl’s spark._ How am I supposed to talk to him when he keeps avoiding me? He doesn’t even look at me, except for what is necessary between us. I feel his aversion every time I come near him, when ten solar cycles ago, he was my closest friend. Tell me, medic, how is that ‘functional’? And what do I do to fix this? How do I help him?

_He stood up abruptly. “Thank you for your time, Ratchet,” he said into the startled medic’s faceplates. “I appreciate your counsel.”_

_He left the office as promptly and at a loss as he had entered._

xxx

Optimus Prime’s sonorous command to transform interrupted Prowl’s memory feed. The small group of mechs around him obediently shifted into alt mode, and he followed suit on learned instinct, taking his customary position on their commander’s left. As was his duty, he did his best to keep a watchful optic on their surroundings as the small line of cars moved into gear, but his sensors kept straying of their own accord, again and again returning to Jazz who had settled into his designated place on Optimus’ right.

It was true: Apart from pretty much everything else he could think of, confronting the saboteur directly was the only thing Prowl hadn’t attempted yet. He felt strangely cornered by that fact - and ready to growl at his own logic circuits, which saw fit to remind him that ignoring the most direct approach due to personal sensitivities was, at best, irrational.

Some distant part of him marveled at the uncharacteristic degree of spontaneity he was suddenly displaying as he opened a comm. channel on his commander’s standard frequency. _‘Permission to speak, sir.’_

 _‘Permission granted,’_ came the immediate reply.

_‘Sir, I am aware that my shift is far from over, but would it be possible for me to have a private conversation with Commander Jazz, sir?’_

Surprised silence filled the line. Prowl felt his leader’s scanners brush over him as he counted the astroseconds.

 _‘Do as you think best, my friend,’_ Optimus sent, sounding almost a bit too gentle for Prowl’s audios.

Truth be told, he had no idea as to what ‘best’ might be. Luckily, his battle computer was already compensating for its owner’s atypical impulsiveness, and pinged him with the draft of an action plan. It was barely more than a sketch, full of unknown variables, but it was better than nothing, Prowl guessed.

Quickly, before he lost his nerve again, he floored his gas pedal and wheeled right to position himself squarely right in front of Jazz’ hood. The saboteur had to slow down rather abruptly, and Prowl sensed the brief flare of surprise and confusion that went through Jazz’ field. He gave his friend a moment to adjust, then activated the small electric sign in his rear window. ‘Please follow’ it read in bright-red, blinking Earth letters.

It was kind of a running gag between them, one Jazz had always been fond of. Prowl took a deep intake of air. Then he flashed his right indicator and turned off the road.

And Jazz followed.

xxx

The small plateau, hidden halfway up the foothills of a mountain chain, was one of Prowl’s favorite places, a secluded refuge where he liked to enjoy the occasional quiet afternoon on his rare days off. Once or twice, Jazz had accompanied him, commenting positively on the setting. With any luck, this would work in Prowl’s favor now.

He killed his engine and changed back to root mode, slowly, to give the saboteur time to catch up. Jazz was right behind him, rising to his feet as gracefully as ever.

“What's wrong, officer?” he quipped. “Was I being too fast?”

His casual tone did nothing to hide the tightness of his field or the strained quality of his smile, but Prowl supposed it bode well that he at least tried to take up the joke. He ventured a tiny grin of his own. “I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t plan to whisk you off like this. But it is important that we talk.”

Jazz’ smile faltered. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I figured.”

Prowl couldn’t recall the last time he had been so genuinely at a loss for what to do. A Jazz who so decidedly kept his distance just added another unknown variable to the already byzantine equation. Primus help him, why wasn’t there an SOP for such cases?

I couldn’t help but notice,” he began carefully, “that you have formed a close bond with our visitors.”

“Uh huh,” Jazz said noncommittally.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Prowl hastened to add. “I do not reproach you for it. You have always found it easy to establish close ties with others, I know that. It’s just that - this seemed different to me.”

If possible, Jazz’ already closely retracted field coiled even tighter as he crossed his arms under his bumper. “It’s none of your business, Prowl. I can handle myself fine; just leave me be, okay?”

Prowl shook his head. “I know you are trained to solve problems on your own, and I respect your wish to do so. But if my calculations concerning your condition are correct, then you should not be left alo-”

“What the frag are you talking about?”

Being interrupted did generally not sit very well with Prowl. He frowned. “Well, it is not uncommon for victims of a violent crime to develop unhealthy affections for their assaulters. If this is the case, I want to make certain that you receive all the care you require.”

Jazz’ energy field suddenly smoothed out, becoming light and deceptively friendly. An easy, noncommittal smile curled his lips as he dropped into a more relaxed pose, and Prowl had to consciously restrain himself from taking a step back. He had seen this attitude on the saboteur during more combat missions than he cared to count, and every subroutine of his tactical processor screamed red-flagged warnings at him. This Jazz was _dangerous_.

“Unhealthy affections,” the saboteur repeated conversationally. “Catch me up here, Prowler, will ya? Exactly what kinda trauma are we talking?”

This was so severely deviating from the original plan, but Prowl wasn’t about to admit defeat so quickly. He pushed his tac net up another notch and went with the first option it threw his way: plain honesty. “You have dealt with hostage situations. Surely you are familiar with the term ‘traumatic bonding’.”

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugged. “Seen some o’ those poor glitches in my time. You think that’s what’s wrong with me? Aw, don’t look at me like that, I don’t blame ya. You’re right; a mech with a living, beating spark in his chest plates just _has_ to be a raving lunatic.”

Prowl felt his door wings give an involuntary twitch. “I did not mean to imply -“

“Shut up!” Jazz’ field lashed out with a suddenness that hit Prowl like a point-blank laser shot; hot and merciless and crackling with unbridled anger. “You got some guts, calling me a psycho ‘cause _I_ actually have some social subroutines! Your idea of an emotional bond is to swap battle stats with a tac drone! You wouldn’t know a true emotion if it kicked your skid plate, you sparkless machine!”

It was a stale accusation, one Prowl barely registered anymore when mechs murmured it under their breath or sneered behind his back. Still, his analytical data threads took fascinated notice of how different the reaction was when the words came from someone he considered a close confidant. The spark he had just been denied clenched in shock before it gave a sharp, painful twinge the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long time.

His logic center reacted immediately, pinging him with a default query Prowl himself had programmed into his subroutines. Within astroseconds, his emotional processing algorithms were relegated to tertiary data threads while his tac net neatly slotted into their place, ordering his battle computer to take charge of his thoughts and actions until instructed otherwise.

“My apologies,” he said calmly. “It was not my intention to insult you. As your friend, your safety and wellbeing are of importance to me, but I cannot assure those if I do not have all the facts. It was my hope that you trusted me enough to confide those facts to me. I will do everything I can to provide you with the support you need.” And even as he spoke, some distant part of him realized that he _did_ sound like a sparkless machine.

The next thing Prowl knew, Jazz lunged at him.

Eons-old battle protocols engaged like clockwork, pushing him smoothly into evasive action. A quick dive, rolling off his shoulder to reduce the impact, and the next moment he was kneeling upright on the ground, pulling his acid pellet gun from his subspace. The weapon hummed to life in his hand as he found and unlocked the trigger, bracing himself, taking aim -

Only that Jazz wasn’t trying to attack him.

The sound of a transformation sequence reached his audios as the saboteur shifted into alt mode in mid air and landed hard, wheels spinning and engine revving aggressively. “Race me,” he snapped.

“Pardon me?” He couldn’t have heard that right. Jazz shot backwards and did a sharp turn so he was now facing the plateau’s exit.

“You wanna talk? Fine. Catch me. If you can.” And with that he took off into the evening desert, screeching tires spitting dirt and pebbles into Prowl’s faceplates.

Prowl remained motionless while the sound of the saboteur’s engines died down in the increasing distance and his straining logic circuits did their best to deduce some sense from this latest development. When that failed, he slowly rose to his feet, subspaced his weapon, and very deliberately assumed vehicle mode as well. If defeating Jazz in a racing competition got the stubborn slagger to talk to him, then this was what Prowl would to do.

For this was Jazz. And failure was not an option.

xxx

Had his target not been the Autobots’ top Spec Ops agent, Prowl’s Enforcer experience in car chasing might have given him a real edge in this game. Regrettably, Jazz was not some over-confident little street racer.

The saboteur hit his breaks hard and did a sharp U-turn, veering away from the edge of the canyon Prowl had patiently tried to herd him towards for what felt like the last hundred vorns. For a split astrosecond, the maneuver brought him dead horizontal to his pursuer, and frag all fair play, but Prowl was ready to seize his chance. He transformed in mid-motion, laser pistol out the moment Jazz floored his gas pedal again.

A deafening crack shook the air. Jazz fishtailed violently, desperately trying to countersteer as his busted front tire threw him off balance, but to no avail. He avoided landing on his roof only by hurriedly changing back to root mode. Metal screeched as he skidded several feet across the gravelly ground before he came to a halt, groaning.

Prowl released a lomg ex-vent and lowered his weapon. “Alright. I think this has gone far en-“

A wall of light and sound hit him like a giant metal hammer. He staggered, sensors ringing with overstimulation, and lost his footing, blinded to everything except nauseating disorientation. There was the growling sound of a high-performance engine, and when his vision cleared, he saw Jazz on his four wheels again, heading straight for the edge of the canyon.

“Jazz!” he shouted, vocalizer spitting static. “No!” But the saboteur didn’t even slow down.

Transformation was a painfully sluggish process, but as soon as he managed, Prowl forced his struggling engine from naught to sixty. It didn’t take more than one scan to see that the run-up was too short, Jazz’ speed too hampered by his injury.

 _‘Jazz!’_ he hollered into an open comm. line. _‘Stop at once! That’s an order!’_

No reaction. And less than half a mile to the edge.

Prowl gunned his engine mercilessly, but his systems still responded with all the speed of a human dial-up internet connection. Five hundred feet to the edge.

_‘Jazz!’_

Jazz’ tires left the ground.

xxx

Prowl slammed down on his brakes, coming to a screeching hold as the events before him seemed to play out in slow motion.

Jazz soared through the air, but it was painfully obvious that he lacked the momentum to carry him all the way to the other side. He transformed while still airborne, but it was too late. Prowl virtually felt the impact as he had to watch his friend crash into the opposite canyon wall.

For one long, agonizing moment, Jazz’ hands and feet desperately scrabbled for purchase. Then he fell, in a strangely graceful arc, disappearing from Prowl’s line of sight, and exactly 4.47 astroseconds later, the crash of his impact reverberated through the canyon.

Prowl moved on autopilot: Change back to root mode, take three steps, and leap.

His equilibrium sensors jumped into high gear as he slipped and stumbled his way down the steep slope. Gravel and dirt bit into his armor, scratched his paint and dented his plates while the rising dust obscured his vision. He landed on his knees with a harsh thump, vents stuttering in an attempt to get rid of the dirt they’d accumulated.

“Jazz?”

The saboteur was lying only a couple steps away, and to Prowl’s immense relief, he was online, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. Prowl was performing a deep-level scan even before he had crossed the small distance to sink down beside his friend.

For the most part, the injuries turned out to be superficial; nothing Jazz’ self-repair couldn’t handle. His engine had been rattled pretty badly, as was to be expected, but fortunately, Prowl detected no tears or leakages.

“The extent of your recklessness has just reached an unprecedented peak.” Even as the words left his vocalizer, he felt his emotional programs begin to reroute themselves, feelings becoming too intense for the simple shunt he’d used. He let it happen, allowing his worry and rage to spill over into his field. He _wanted_ to be angry, and he wanted Jazz to _know_ that he was angry.

“Enough of your shenanigans. I’m taking you back to headquarters this instant.”

“No,” Jazz rasped.

“That was not a suggestion!”

“No!” With more force than Prowl had thought possible, the saboteur wrenched himself away from his grasp, raising his arm. He was back on his feet in an instant, ready to fend off whatever attack Jazz had in mind.

The saboteur’s outstretched hand hovered in the air between them. A small cover in his wrist plating had retracted, exposing the access port that lay beneath. “Please,” he whispered.

Prowl stared at him, shocked to an extent that literally rooted him to the spot. This was about _interfacing_? “I beg your pardon?”

Jazz’ hand began to tremble. “Please,” he ground out. “Quick.”

That unfamiliar strain in his vocalizer, the distinct lack of arousal in his field... Prowl’s logic center struggled to consolidate the conflicting data, its valiant yet fruitless efforts leaving him dizzy. Lines of glyphs and numbers littered his HUD as automatic subroutines evaluated parameters they would normally apply to combat situations. And Jazz kept staring up at him with that blue visor of his, and an edge of desperation was beginning to creep into his field.

Very gently, Prowl extended his own hand and let his fingers brush against the saboteur’s. When the universe didn’t come tumbling down on them, he brought his other hand up as well and clasped Jazz’ dark palm firmly between his own. Locking gazes with his friend, Prowl sank to his knees again and unfurled a thin connection cable from his forearm compartment.

Jazz’ field simmered with an eerie combination of apprehension and relief. Prowl kept his own carefully neutral, hiding the fact that everything in him rebelled against what he was about to do. But his friend made no move to stop him, and so he gently guided the plug into the proffered port. The two components connected with a muted click.

From this astrosecond forward, things were taken out of his hands.

Jazz didn’t bother with any preliminaries. He hacked through his own firewalls ruthlessly, pulling a startled Prowl along with him right into his inner memory core. A densely compiled data package was pushed forward, tagged with a complicated access code, and both were thrust at Prowl almost violently. _‘Do it,’_ Jazz growled over comm.

This was not the way an uplink should be done. Projecting a calmness he didn’t feel, Prowl accepted the transmission and entered the code.

He expected the file to unfold before him, layer by layer as memory files were meant to do. Instead, it felt like he was being sucked into it, captured by an irresistible pull like the gravitation of a black hole that forced him ever deeper until he wasn’t sure anymore who he was. Was he Prowl, kneeling on a dirty desert floor in the last rays of Earth’s sinking sun, or had he somehow become Jazz, who was reclining on a warm, somewhat knobbly surface that undulated gently beneath him like it possessed a life of its own?

His panicking processor was soothed to a degree by the fact that he at least recognized their surroundings: They were in one of the Ark’s spare storage rooms. But his vision was hindered by a strange, wriggling, and shifting mass of silver, and the next moment, Prowl recognized the reason: That squirming surface Jazz was resting on was composed of the countless, five-legged bodies of the Morphobots. Dozens of their tentacles were wrapped around his limbs, his chest and back, even his sensor horns, and he clearly wasn’t the least bit worried about it.

In fact, more than anything else, Prowl could sense that Jazz was _happy_ with the situation. He enjoyed the gentle squeeze and hold on his chassis, the affectionate touches ghosting over his plating, and he relished in the sensation of the tiny vines that had slipped under his armor to tap into his electrical system, sucking small amounts of energy right out of his lines.

Prowl shuddered faintly at the realization that yes, the constant, gentle manipulation, coupled with the simple frequencies the creatures transmitted, was indeed quite pleasurable, and might very well bring a mech to a satisfying overload. And yet, sharing himself with the creatures like this seemed to bring Jazz a pleasure that went far beyond mere physical arousal.

Old Enforcer instincts came to life as he picked up the trail that quickly lead him away from the surface and down into the saboteur’s core coding. Gently, gently Prowl felt his way forward, stroking aside files and strings of data that became more basic the further he went. He was nearing spark coding level already, and began to fear that he might have miscalculated at some point, that he was snooping around in Jazz’ innermost core for nothing... and then he found it.

A single glyph, so simple and archaic not even the most adept coding specialist could have said when exactly it had become part of the Cybertronian genome. _Love/raise/nourish/protect_. The order was absolute; its activation led to a major priority shift in both the CPU and meta-processor. With this program running, caring for the individual it had imprinted on would take unmitigated precedence over whichever other function the mechanism in question was coded to perform.

The Morphobots crooned in delight when their closest tentacles were pulled down and hugged tightly to Jazz’ chest plates, and the saboteur’s spark and processor practically glowed with the joy and satisfaction that little sound brought on. It felt so perfect, so fundamentally right to let the program guide him, to simply lie here and _feel_ and make his little sweetsparks happy...

Recognition thrummed through Prowl’s spark like soundless thunder as long-buried sensations and images descended upon him full-force; gentle and sharp and sweet and bitter, ecstatic and painful and far too little even in their abundance, and a familiar darkness was beginning to close in on him...

“Prowl!”

The connection snapped so suddenly it hurt. He reeled, systems redlining, his HUD a cascade of error messages, and for a fleeting moment, he was genuinely afraid that he’d crash right then and there, in the middle of the Primus-forsaken desert.

But somehow, by some small miracle, he managed to cling to consciousness, dialing down his screaming systems one by one until finally his vents slowed and his optics stopped fritzing.

“You with me, Prowler?”

Jazz, he realized, was holding him by the shoulders, obviously trying to steady him even in his own battered state. “Yes,” he answered, and wasn’t surprised to hear static in his voice. He felt shaky, though not on a physical basis, and the feeling only intensified when all the implications of his discovery fully sank in. He looked up into his friend’s blue visor, and his sparkpulse was a dull, heavy throbbing in his chest. “Primus, Jazz,” he breathed. “ _How?_ ”

Jazz didn’t answer right away. He took a moment to close his wrist port cover, then looked at his friend ponderously. “They were desperate, Prowl,” he said at last. “They were starving. The only reason they attacked us was because they needed help so badly. And I _wanted_ to help them. I mean, think about it: A species on the brink of extinction, stranded on an alien planet light years away from home...” His smile took on a hint of sadness. “Sound familiar?”

“You... sensed a connection of the mind,” Prowl concluded. Jazz shrugged, turning away to gaze into the distance.

“Guess so. And then... when I made the hardline connection, I got a glimpse at some of the little guys’ memories. Remember what Cosmos said about them being the youngest of their kind? He was right, Prowler. They missed their home and their family so much. In a way, it really _was_ like dealing with a newspark.”

“I understand that this would rouse your protective instincts,” Prowl conceded. “But it needs more specific triggers than empathy and protectiveness to activate a mech’s parental programming.”

“I know that, smartaft,” Jazz snapped. “You got any better ideas, I’m all audios.”

There were theories to be developed about this; maybe those frequencies the creatures had used were the key. He would need to consult with Perceptor, maybe Ratchet, too - but science could wait. “Why did you not tell anyone? Optimus, or Ratchet... or even Hoist?”

Jazz’s mouth turned into a very thin, very strict line. “None o’ their business,” he said tersely.

“Why didn’t you tell _me_ , then?” He locked the joints of his door wings firmly in place, clamping down on the hydraulics mercilessly, but the damn things simply wouldn’t stop trembling. “I see why you considered the matter private, and I’m not even talking about security here. But would I not have been the... logical contact person?” Primus, why couldn’t his voice sound a bit steadier?

He couldn’t make sense of the sudden flash of self-loathing that ripped through his friend’s field. Jazz’ gaze refocused on him, and again there was that bitter smile tugging at his mouth. “You know how that program works, Prowl. Remember what it’s like when someone tries to hurt your little ones? How you just wanna jump that idiot and rip their optics right out of their sockets?”

Prowl stared at him, mouth agape in genuine consternation. “I never even came close to the creatures!”

“You led the attack in the valley,” Jazz said simply. “And you didn’t want them on the ship. Seemed to be enough.” He shrugged. “So I... figured I’d just steer clear ‘till things... y’ know... _settled_ or.... whatever these things do.”

And finally, the complete picture took shape in Prowl’s processor. It was true; he hadn’t bothered to keep his disapproval of the situation a secret. If Jazz had come to view the Morphobots as a kind of adopted creations, regarding a displeased, higher-ranking officer as a potential threat would be the logical consequence.

“Guess I fragged that one up pretty good, huh?” Jazz said, contrition swirling in his field.

“On the contrary,” Prowl replied. “All things considered, I’d say you handled the situation quite... reasonably.”

Jazz cycled his visor once, then again as if to make sure it was really Prowl he was looking at. “Wow,” he said slowly. “That was a compliment, right?”

Prowl felt his lips twitch. “I still wish you’d talked to me, though. Had I known, I could have devised a much more effective strategy to support you.”

For some mysterious reason, this made the saboteur smile. “Oh, here we go again,” he said with a teasing lilt in his voice. “All you ever want from me is _intel_.”

Prowl had the vague suspicion that he should feel insulted, but the deep sense of relief that washed over him effectively neutralized all other emotions. Despite everything, his friend would still grin and tease him like this, and it felt like his spark had been submerged in a warm oil bath.

“Your intelligence is usually not completely without value,” he deadpanned, and Jazz laughed. It sounded rough and shaky, but it was a laugh, and the warm-oil-feeling instantly upgraded itself to ‘titanium-spiced energon’.

Jazz shifted on his knees, probably to find a more comfortable position, but immediately hissed in pain when his engine components gave a protesting screech. The sound was enough to jolt Prowl’s CPU right back into officer mode. “Come on,” he said, offering his friend a hand to help him up. “Those injuries need treatment. I will get you back to base.” But the saboteur shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Thanks, but... I’d rather stay put for a couple kliks. And I don’t really feel like facing the Hatchet right now.”

It didn’t exactly help matters that Prowl found this attitude fully reasonable. “Let me at least patch up that tire of yours, then,” he pressed gently, pointing at his friend’s arm where his gunshot had gone straight through the rubber. Jazz followed the gesture with his gaze, the look on his faceplates almost one of surprise like he was only just registering the wound. “Oh,” he said. “Uh... yeah. Sure.”

He held his arm out, and Prowl shifted closer while he took his first-aid kit out of his subspace. It had become fairly dark by now, the sun’s last rays having disappeared behind the horizon, so he switched on his low beams and set to work. The scent of burned rubber on his olfactory sensors wasn’t exactly pleasant, but the wound itself was easily dealt with. Some cleaning and a proper patch, and self-repair would take care of the rest.

“There,” he said, smoothing the patch with his thumb. “As good as new.”

He climbed to his feet and took a more comfortable seat on a nearby boulder. In the light of his headlights, he watched his friend flexing and rolling his arm a few times as if to test Prowl’s handiwork. He didn’t speak, though, and as the silence stretched, Prowl began to wonder if Jazz expected him to grant him some privacy now...

“I said some things to you,” Jazz said abruptly. “Earlier.”

Prowl cycled his optics as he parsed the unexpected statement. Jazz caught his gaze, and a strange, dark light glowed in his visor.

“You know I didn’t mean’em, right?”

Prowl cocked his head, studying him. He was rather sure that Jazz _had_ meant it. In that moment, at least.

“I am sufficiently familiar with your rambunctious disposition. I am not going to hold it against you.”

Jazz recoiled visibly as if he’d been struck in the faceplates. “Ouch,” he said roughly. “Alright. Guess I deserved that.”

Prowl bit back the yes that threatened to slip from his vocalizer. He allowed himself a moment to acknowledge the feeling, but then he brushed it aside and instead extended his field to meet his friend’s, transmitting two simple glyphs: _sympathy_ and _support_.

He met resistance; Jazz’ field jittered uncertainly between relief, acceptance, and aversion. Prowl stood his ground, not pressing, just offering.

Finally, with a soft cycling of vents, Jazz sank back to stretch out on the still-warm earth, visor flickering gently as it readjusted to the starlit sky. “Whaddja think,” he said softly. “Where are they now?”

The question took Prowl a bit off-guard. “Well... given that they did not stray from the course I calculated, they should be crossing the Beleria system now. You can find it in your star maps.” He sent a quick data burst with map IDs and detailed coordinates.

“Beleria,” Jazz repeated. “That the one with the pretty nebulae?”

“Yes. The map should contain all inform-“

“I don’t wanna look at some stupid map,” Jazz snapped. “ _You_ tell me.”

Prowl considered him as he lay there, hands balled into fists, staring up at the stars defiantly. He found himself thinking of pain long ago, and of an ancient sadness which would never truly leave.

“I remember those cloud formations,” he answered gently. “They are among the most beautiful in this quadrant. I’m sure your little friends will love them.”

He kept talking, describing the Morphobots’ travel route in as much detail as he was able to. And the longer he spoke, the more at ease he began to feel, a gentle warmth settling in his spark and spilling over into his voice and field. It felt _right_ to sit here under the night sky with his friend and embark on this imaginary journey together. Jazz’ gaze remained fixed on the stars above them, but his field hummed against Prowl’s; not exactly calm but as contend as he probably found himself able to be right now. And as far as Prowl was concerned, that was perfectly good.

He paused only once to send a short message to Optimus Prime and Red Alert, letting them know that the Second- and Third-in-Command were unharmed, but would not return to base before sunrise.

Barring an emergency, they had time. And Jazz was going to need that.

xxx

A small part of their shared mind was awake and alert, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. It was just an old habit, really, for since their journey had begun, nothing had happened that deserved much attention. The green and yellow mech accompanying them would frequently inquire about their status, or give some information on their journey’s progress, but that was pretty much all the distraction they got. The better part of their conscience had therefore slipped off into a light doze, lulled by the constant, gentle rumbling of the engines and the never-changing sight of the stars flying by the tiny porthole. It was an effective way, they’d found, to keep their anxiety at bay.

They had _wanted_ to leave Earth. It did in many respects not meet their requirements for a permanent home, especially since it was already too densely populated for their liking. They needed a place of their own, like their old home had been, where they could live and bring forth the next generation of their kind in peace. When the Autobots, as they’d called themselves, offered to help them find such a place, they had not hesitated to agree, and they did not regret that decision. Still, the prospect of venturing out into space again, alone and facing an unknown future, frightened them more than they cared to admit.

They curled in on themselves a little tighter and willed their drifting thoughts away from what lay ahead. There was time yet to afford such luxury, and they’d rather spend it reminiscing about more enjoyable things... black and white things, to be exact.

His designation was Jazz. He had told them so during one of their bondings, and they had also heard the other robots address him like that. They themselves had no such appellation to share, but Jazz didn’t seem to mind. He called them ‘sweetsparks’.

And what a wonderful companion he’d been. True to his word, he not only convinced his fellow robots to offer them shelter and find them a place to live. All during their stay on Earth, he also saw to it that they were provided with whatever they needed, and assisted them in communicating with his comrades as well.

But the most precious memories were those of their bondings. Jazz hadn’t simply allowed, but _welcomed_ the connections, offered his own energy reserves for them to feed from if they wished, and even returned their cuddles and tentative caresses with unreserved tenderness. And never had they felt anything but deep, loving care and affection from him.

The night before their departure, he had come to say goodbye, and they could tell that the thought of their separation was weighing heavily on him. They wrapped him in a tight embrace, and he opened his ports for them, and their bonding was sweet and gentle and a little bit sad. They didn’t let go of him for a long while, and he clearly wasn’t eager to change that. “You’ll be alright, you know,” he murmured. “You’re some tough little guys, you’re gonna make it.”

They’d wanted to take him with them so much. Wanted to have him by their side, to just be with them and take care of them - and, when the time came, of their offspring, too.

But it could not be, and they knew it. Jazz belonged to Earth, with his friends. It wouldn’t be right to deprive him of the home and family he so obviously cherished.

The memories of their time together were now deeply engrained into their shared minds, though, to be called upon whenever they felt the need to remember. And one day, they would pass those memories on to their progeny, and those would in turn pass them on to theirs. Over time, they would be overlapped by others, as each generation added its own share to the mental heritage. But as long as their species existed, Jazz and his friends and what they had done for them would not be forgotten.

This, they figured, was the least you could do for someone who had just ensured the survival of an entire race.

_***Fin*** _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998492) by [sphinx01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphinx01/pseuds/sphinx01)




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